


Symphony

by thebeespatella



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Classical Music, Everyone Is Gay, M/M, On Indefinite Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/thebeespatella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Of course,” Hannibal says, genial. “It’s very important that you find a good fit.”</p><p>“I have a good fit,” Will mumbles.</p><p>Hannibal nods down at the case in his hand. “An old friend?”</p><p>Will simply nods.</p><p>“Would you be so averse to making a new friend?” </p><p>--</p><p>An AU in which Jack is the director of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, Will is a guest violinist, and Hannibal is a very particular violin-maker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Violin Sonata No. 1, Op. 80 in F Minor: Andante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just a moment.”
> 
> The voice is accented, mellow, pleasant. Will stares at the floor while Jack takes his hat off and strolls by the store window.
> 
> A man emerges from the back room. He is tall and his face is made of sharp angles, from the corners of his mouth to the way his gaze lights on Will, resting heavily against his chest before the man abruptly shifts his eyes to Jack, wiping his hands on a red cloth before shaking his hand. “Jack,” he says. “What can I do for you today?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter is the name of a song that's contained in the chapter. I will add notes if they are relevant. ~~No pun intended~~
> 
> I know the piece best associated with this show is the "Goldberg Variations, Aria", but who even makes harpsichords anymore you guys.

It’s the first day of spring, the equinox, and he finds himself in the doorway to the shop, at Jack’s insistence. Of course, he owes Jack a huge debt, and coming out here was the very least he could do, but he already has an instrument, well worn and well-loved, thank you, so he really doesn’t see the point of wasting everybody’s time.

Nonetheless, he’s early, so he shoves his hands into his pockets and waits, setting the case on the ground. After a few minutes, Jack’s car pulls up, and the man himself gets out of the back.

“Shall we?” he asks with a lifted brow, and he looks at the case Will is carrying. Will shrugs in response, and follows Jack through the narrow glass-paned door, which shuts with the quiet tinkle of a bell behind him.

The inside of the store is clean and stark, with bright white walls made soft by the late morning sun, and sleek black tables. The violins lie quietly in their felt-lined cases, honey-ochre shells and taut strings seemingly in wait, throbbing for a bow.

“Just a moment.”

The voice is accented, mellow, pleasant. Will stares at the floor while Jack takes his hat off and strolls by the store window.

A man emerges from the back room. He is tall and his face is made of sharp angles, from the corners of his mouth to the way his gaze lights on Will, resting heavily against his chest before the man abruptly shifts his eyes to Jack, wiping his hands on a red cloth before shaking his hand. “Jack,” he says. “What can I do for you today?”

“This is Hannibal Lecter,” Jack says, turning to Will. “He’s been supplying the orchestra with violins ever since we found each other some years ago. Hannibal, this is—”

“—Will Graham,” Will says, trying to stand up a little straighter. He meets that weighty gaze again, and finds he cannot sustain it.

Jack bristles. “Yes, Will has come to us this season. Finally managed to pull him out of the classroom. We’re very lucky to have him.”

“Ah.” It’s a brief syllable that gives nothing away, and Will finds himself studying Hannibal. It’s like static. Ordinarily people are too noisy, full of sounds all too willing to burst out, but despite the ostentation of his checked suit and paisley tie, Hannibal is silent.

“I thought I’d show him around,” Jack says to fill the space. “And I thought you’d appreciate if he came and found a violin in person.”

“Of course,” Hannibal says, genial. “It’s very important that you find a good fit.”

“I have a good fit,” Will mumbles.

Hannibal nods down at the case in his hand. “An old friend?”

Will simply nods.

“Would you be so averse to making a new friend?”  A tilt of the head, eyes narrowed for a moment. “I’ll see what I can find.” He heads into the back again.

“Will, I thought we discussed this—” Jack hisses.

“I already have a violin, my violin, and I recall telling you—”

“I don’t care.” Jack sets his teeth, then sighs. “Fear makes you rude, Will.”

Will’s mouth twists. “I’m not _afraid_ of a new instrument, I just don’t need some manufactured—”

“Actually, I craft each one by hand,” Hannibal says, carrying two separate instruments delicately by the neck. “I think you’ll find that the quality of the sound is much better that way.”

Will presses his lips together and says nothing, just watches as Hannibal meticulously rolls out a bolt of felt, also red, then lays the two violins out with care.

Both gleam, obviously kept up well, fitted with elegant ebony fingerboards and ornate necks that curl up into a gentle scroll. At first glance, they seem identical, but Will steps forward and can see that the angle of the f-holes differs slightly, doesn’t miss how the bridges differ in thickness by millimeters. He wonders if it’s intentional.

“They—they’re beautiful,” he says finally. “May I?”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, as though to say, ‘Be my guest,’ and holds his arm out. Will take a moment to figure out he’s asking for his coat, and he shrugs out of it, handing the shabby thing over to the impeccably dressed man in front of him. Suddenly he cares.

So he picks up the bow hastily, knowing that when he feels the grain of the wood against his cheek and the thrum of the strings against his fingertips it won’t matter. He nestles the violin below his jaw. It’s a little longer, leaner, than what he’s used to. He draws the bow across the strings once (he doesn’t check if the bow is rosined; somehow, he knows it will be) and closes his eyes. The instrument sings. She has a clear voice, chipper, springy, bright.

“Wonderful,” Jack says.

Will closes his eyes, lets his fingers flutter over the third movement of Prokfkiev’s Sonata No. 1. The smoothest of violins will creak over the awkward dark notes, and he finds, indeed, that even this instrument finds herself struggling, as though panting during a steep walk uphill. He coaxes a few final, hoarse notes from her, but the E string is—off, he can’t tell if it’s that it’s too taut or not taut enough, and therein lies the problem: It is most probably perfectly tuned, but the violin itself is built such that the awkwardness of that string will pluck at him like an old injury, and it won’t be enough for him to get used to it. The scar will always be on his shoulder. So he puts the violin down with care.

Hannibal regards him studiously, eyes curving over the slight frown, the tremble in his fingers a slight butterfly sigh. “Not for you?”

“I thought it sounded great,” Jack says.

Hannibal’s smile is patient. “It must be perfect, Jack. Anything less than magnificence would be…unbecoming.”

Will nods, refusing Hannibal’s eyes but taking up the bow and violin that elegant fingers tilt toward him. He starts up where he left off with Prokofiev, and after a moment of hesitation the violin comes with him, leaning into the curve of the long notes with startling sympathy, and for a moment, he flies. His fingers are strings being pulled in by the gravity of the instrument, his arm is the bow. His lungs breathe in nothing but vibrating soul-breaths, and his heart is nothing but a metronome.

The last note ends as swiftly as it is meant to.

“Lovely,” Hannibal says, unafraid to break the silence. Jack is beaming like a new father, and Will sighs. He’s going to have to play this violin every day for as long as he’s allowed.

He says nothing as Hannibal takes the violin back, their fingers brushing over the neck. Hannibal puts the violin and bow back into a case that hugs it like skin, then wraps the whole thing up in paper as though it were a bouquet of flowers, and places it gently in Will’s arms, along with his coat.

“Please keep me posted,” Hannibal says, with a glint of teeth. “My instruments matter to me.”

Will looks him straight in the face this time. “I should hope so.”

If anything, Hannibal’s not-smile grows even sharper. “See that you care for the violin, Mr. Graham.”

Will nods, jerkily, and Jack says, “Thank you,” as they walk toward the door. The case is heavy in his arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violin Sonata No. 1, Op. 80 in F Minor: Andante - composed by Prokofiev. The version by Itzhak Perrlman and Vladimir Ashkenazy is the one I listened to.


	2. Swan Lake, Op.20: No.13d Danse Des Petits Cygnes (Allegro Moderato)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We really need you, Will,” Jack had said, and Will had taken his glasses off and pinched his nose.
> 
> “You always say that,” Will said.
> 
> “You do this better than anyone else.”
> 
> “Flattery isn’t going to get you shit, Jack.”
> 
> Jack blinked. “I wouldn’t flatter you, Will. I’m not here to kiss anybody’s ass, except—well, except we need something exceptional this year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Will in this fic is shaped a bit by the fact that I reread _Red Dragon_ over the weekend, and I've been mulling over what elements are expressed well in the show, and which ones I'd like to emphasize more.

Despite himself, Will unwraps the violin the moment he gets home. He pushes his dogs away from him, unusually impatient with their snuffling hellos, and places the violin on his bed. The paper slices cleanly under the blade of a knife.

He flips open the lid with careful hands, and stares at the instrument for a moment. It glistens at him. He goes to his desk and picks up his old violin, opening its case and placing it next to the new one.

They’re almost two different species of instrument. Lecter’s looks grandiose next to his own, almost repulsively so. His violin—battered-looking, perhaps, but not for lack of care. He picks it up, and his fingers curl around the neck, and he relishes the comfort. The smell as he places it under his chin, the familiar weight of his bow in his hand.

He puts it back down and goes straight to the cabinet in his kitchen, pours himself a finger of whiskey. As he stands outside on the porch, a cold breeze nipping briefly at his nose, he drinks, pours some more, drinks. The burn feels good. It feels better than standing around inside staring at his violins and wondering, for the millionth time, why he had accepted Jack’s offer.

“We really need you, Will,” Jack had said, and Will had taken his glasses off and pinched his nose.

“You always say that,” Will said.

“You do this better than anyone else.”

“Flattery isn’t going to get you shit, Jack.”

Jack blinked. “I wouldn’t flatter you, Will. I’m not here to kiss anybody’s ass, except—well, except we need something exceptional this year.”

“Another cut in funding?”

Jack nodded.

“Bastards.”

“Come on, get out of the classroom. Anybody can teach theory. Have your students ever even heard you play?”

“They don’t need to hear me play,” Will said, but he felt the ground slipping out from under him.

“Will.”

Tugging him slowly over the cliff. Plunge.

 “We need you, Will. You know I wouldn’t ask unless we did.”

Will scowls at the memory. And now he was trapped—in rehearsals, in performances, in between two violins.

It’s dark by the time he goes back inside. He only just lands the glass and bottle on his desk, sitting heavily in a chair. The two violins gleam in the dark.

“You’re beautiful,” he says to Lecter’s violin. He is very drunk. “But you’re not mine. I know you want to be, but you’re not a part of me, and you never will be.”

There is no answer. Will falls asleep in the chair.

 

He wakes with a terrible ache in his neck and a headache that starts behind his eyes and burns right to the core of his brain. He picks his glasses up from where they’d fallen during the night, and gets up slowly.

An ibuprofen and a shower later, he’s feeling better, even though he still has two violins on his bed. A quick glance at his watch tells him he’s bordering on late, so he feeds the dogs, packs up, and leaves.

He brings both violins, and he can see the tense twitch in the corner of Jack’s mouth. It brings him a twist of something that feels good, but he ignores it and gets busy settling into his spot.

The other violinists are here—Beverly Katz, for one, and the others he doesn’t know. He likes Beverly, and he smiles back when she gives him a small wave. She’s like the horn section in the Dance of the Little Swans: Quick, clean, playful. Will picks a seat further back than necessary, and regrets his choice instantly.

“Good morning,” Jack says, and there is silence. The man had that effect on a room—his bearing heavy, his presence immediately setting the tempo for conversation. “So let’s talk about this season.”

Will fidgets in his chair. It creaks under his shifting weight.

“First, we have a guest this season—Will Graham.” Jack nods toward him, and heads turn. His eyes flicker down to the floor in a semblance of a greeting, and there’s the noise of people turning back around.

He’s used to this, being the new kid, but it doesn’t mean he likes it.

“Second, I’m sure you’ve all heard about the budget cuts.” Another murmur. “But we’re going to be on the offensive. We’re teaming up with the ballet and opera for publicity”—he raises his hands to stave off the inevitable groans, talks over them—“because we have to attract new donors. We have to.

“So we’ll mess around with the schedule, but all of you are doing something. All of you. And I know it’ll be a lot of work. So I’m pleased to announce that we’ll be working with someone new this season, in addition to your regular teachers and coaches.”

And Will knows it before Jack even draws his next breath—

“Please welcome Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

And Lecter descends into the pit as though he were reading a cue card, neat in another three-piece suit, hands folded in front of him as he stands next to Jack.

Will looks at him. Still static.

His tie matches his pocket square, and Will snorts. Pretentious prick.

“Thank you,” Lecter says, and his voice carries, lilting through the quiet. “I know you are all used to your comfortable ways, and I promise not to intrude.” It’s a split-second thing, a quick turn of the head with piercing eye contact. Will looks away. “At least, I hope I not to intrude too much.”

 

Jack pulls Will aside after rehearsal. “I want you to work with Dr. Lecter,” he says. “I know you don’t have a teacher, and this season is going to be difficult.”

“Why can’t it just be—you, like last time?”

“Because I might not just be enough.”

Will sighs, but with his body, crumpling a little. “I can do the work, Jack.”

“I don’t doubt you can do the work, I’m just saying—”

Suddenly a shadow looms over them.

“Will,” says Lecter, smiling widely. The expression looks underused. “It’s good to see you again.” He holds out a hand, and Will ignores it. Jack bristles. “I’ll walk you out.”

He walks next to Will, out into the too-bright parking lot. His shoes click on linoleum, then crunch on gravel. Every sound falls into Will’s ears.

They stop at Will’s car. “Look, I appreciate what you’re doing and I know Jack is your friend, but I don’t want—”

“Perhaps it’s not about what you want,” Lecter says, and Will finds himself crowded against the door of his car. “But about what you need.”

“What I _need_ is plenty of time alone, with the music.”

“Are you so confident in the perfection of your technique?”

Will opens his mouth to say something cliché, then shuts it again. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Dr. Lecter. You wouldn’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”

Lecter merely hums. “I don’t mean to say you don’t play beautifully already.”

“I don’t—play well with others.”

“But we won’t be _playing_.” The word comes out of his mouth slowly, like a particularly long pull of the bow against the strings. “We will be working. And then we could socialize. Like adults.”

Will battles the urge to sneer and instead says, “I don’t find you that interesting.”

Another smile, more teeth. “You will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is from the ballet Swan Lake, composed by Tchaikovsky. Probably my favorite ballet.


End file.
